


Falling with Difficulty

by Lys ap Adin (lysapadin)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: F/M, Smut, Women Being Awesome, alternate canon history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-15
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysapadin/pseuds/Lys%20ap%20Adin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bianchi is a grown woman, and she can take care of herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling with Difficulty

**Author's Note:**

> Adult for smut. 14,844 words. See the end of the fic for some additional notes about certain canon revisions I've made.
> 
> Many, many thanks to [](http://branchandroot.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**branchandroot**](http://branchandroot.dreamwidth.org/), [](http://mercuria.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**mercuria**](http://mercuria.dreamwidth.org/), and [](http://sutlers.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**sutlers**](http://sutlers.dreamwidth.org/), who beta'd this fic for me; without their gracious assistance, this fic would not be what it is. Any mistakes or confusions that still remain in the fic are surely due to my own oversight.

Bianchi realized that she was in deep trouble the day Dino Cavallone ceased to be clumsy when he was alone with her.

The morning had been going nicely up till that point, too, which just goddamn figured, the distant, analytical portion of her supposed. The rest of her was preoccupied with ejecting Dino from her apartment, half-dressed and with the rest of his clothes—a sock, his jacket and t-shirt, and his belt—falling out of his arms. She slammed the door shut after him and tried to steady her breathing.

It had been _such_ a good morning, too, lazy and slow after a fantastic night. It was no wonder things had gone to shit so fast; she never got warning for things like that. No, that would have been too convenient.

Such a simple thing, too, something she could have taken for granted with anyone else. The thought made Bianchi grind the heels of her palms against her eye sockets, because _fuck_, what if she just hadn't been paying attention? Maybe this wasn't the first time that Dino had managed to pick his way through the mess of her little efficiency like a normal man would have, without tripping over his own two feet or the clutter of her belongings, all without knocking something over or breaking it. And it had been so normal that she hadn't even thought about it, had just followed the lean golden lines of him with a ribbon of satisfaction running through her, watching him make coffee for them.

It hadn't been until she was watching him navigate his way back to the bed with the two steaming cups in his hand that she realized something was wrong.

Oh _fuck_, she was in trouble. So, so much trouble.

* * *

 

When Bianchi was eight, her father brought a little boy who was perhaps a year or so old home with him. Bianchi remembered certain things about that day very clearly: the boy's eyes, large and green under the tufts of his silver-gilt hair as her father said, "This is your brother," and the way her mother's mouth had turned thin and flat, a line slashed across her face.

It was the day that Bianchi began to grow up, though she didn't realize it at the time. Even so, it hadn't been difficult to sense the undercurrents—her father's tension, her mother's anger. She was smart enough not to ask how she'd gotten a brother who was already as old as this one, since she'd already mastered the essentials of where babies came from.

"His name is Eugenio," her father said, and Bianchi was careful not to wrinkle her nose.

Instead she bent over the little boy and said, "How do you do? I'm Bianchi."

It was a sign, or should have been, that her brother's first response was to open his mouth and start wailing.

* * *

 

Dino Cavallone was a mistake from the very beginning. Bianchi wasn't much for trying to fool herself, and so she reminded herself, over and over, that it wasn't a good idea even to flirt with Cavallone. But it was fun, and a pleasant way of passing the time during this Japanese sojourn of theirs. And Cavallone was interesting.

He possessed exquisite manners, which she supposed he didn't have much a choice about, given who he was and how he'd been raised. Bianchi had seen his courtly charm in action, back home, at some party or another when he'd been squiring one of the many eligible daughters of the mafia around.

He seemed to forget all those manners around her, for some reason. He was too well-bred to be _rude_, but he didn't treat her like one of the mafia's delicate flowers, either. Whatever his faults, at least Cavallone wasn't stupid—if he'd done either of those, Bianchi would have poisoned his coffee, and consequences be damned.

But he didn't default to the other extreme, like most of the men she dealt with did, which was to pretend that she didn't have breasts at all. Cavallone was clearly aware that she was a woman and wasn't shy about giving her the occasional once-over and approving smile, the kind that said that he appreciated the view. But he didn't do the third thing, the one the stupider mafia men did, and assume that she was anyone's woman. Cavallone kept his hands to himself, and restricted himself to his flirting.

Come to think of it, Cavallone was a lot smarter than he let on.

It still wasn't a good idea; Bianchi knew that perfectly well. But there was something pleasant about feeling Cavallone's eyes moving over her, appreciating the work she put into maintaining her trim curves and the clothes that showed them off. It was pleasant, too, to trade barbs with him, because Cavallone wasn't shy about laughing at himself, when it came to that.

Bianchi could just about believe that he saw _her_ standing there, when he looked at her, which was a novel sensation. And a flattering one.

She would have defied anyone to withstand that for long.

* * *

 

Bianchi's phone began ringing from somewhere under a pile of clothes, the tinny jingle of it muted but still distinctive: Dino. Bianchi stood in the middle of her apartment and let it go to voicemail.

Not that it mattered; there was a short interval of silence before she heard Dino's voice on the other side of her door. It was a cheap apartment, and the door didn't do a damn thing to filter out his voice: "Um, so, hey," he said. "Call me when—if, I guess?—you feel like talking. Um. You're going to have to help me out, here. Dunno what I did wrong." There was a beat of silence, and Bianchi had just begun to hope he'd hung up, before he added, plaintive, "Please call?"

And that was just the perfect touch, wasn't it? He didn't even realize what it was that had happened. It was so absurd that all Bianchi could do was put her face in her hands again and laugh.

Jesus, she'd fucked up but good this time.

* * *

 

Having a little brother wasn't anything like Bianchi had been led to believe it would be, either from the books she'd read or the way she had seen friends with little brothers behave. Her brother was a quiet boy, and mostly kept away from her. Or perhaps he kept away from their mother; it was difficult to say. Certainly Mama kept Bianchi close after the day Papa brought him home, because it was time for Bianchi to stop doing childish things and work on becoming a young lady.

Bianchi wondered about that, but privately. Her mother's mouth stayed flat nearly all the time, now: it had gotten tight at the corners, and she rarely smiled any more, especially if Eugenio was present. It didn't take a genius—or an adult—to guess why, especially since Eugenio didn't look anything like Bianchi or her mother, but looked a lot like the pretty lady who'd given Bianchi piano lessons for a while.

Didn't take a genius to notice that her parents fought more these days, either. They did it behind the thick oak doors that muffled their shouting, but all of her mother's skill with cosmetics weren't enough erase the redness around her eyes.

Bianchi wasn't receiving piano lessons any more, though her brother had gravitated to the piano almost as quickly as he'd learned to walk. Pretty Miss Gokudera still came around, two or three times a year, and gave him a lesson. Bianchi didn't think that it was coincidence that her parents fought most in the days before and after those visits or that her mother's eyes were the reddest then.

"Never trust men," she told Bianchi one afternoon. Bianchi had just turned ten, and they were working on embroidery together. On the other side of the house, her brother was receiving a piano lesson. Mama stabbed at the taut cloth in her embroidery hoop with short, angry movements, drawing scarlet silk through the snowy linen and forming the shapes of flowers there. "Never trust them at all."

Bianchi nodded, to show that she was listening.

She might as well have saved herself the trouble. "They're liars, and cheats." Her mother's mouth was flat, the grooves at the corners etched deep; there was a momentum to her words that matched the ceaseless movements of her fingers. "They don't know how to keep faith with their promises, and they don't care to learn. And they don't know how to care for anything beyond themselves."

Flowers sprang up under her mother's fingers as she spoke, tiny and perfect, six-petaled loops that gleamed against the linen. Bianchi watched that instead of her mother's face, because Mama looked a little scary just then. Her own hands were still on her embroidery. It was a mess; all her flowers were crooked and the only way Bianchi could be certain that she was looking at the right side of her hoop was the way the cloth fell.

"You'll marry someday," her mother said, abrupt. "Don't do it for love." She laughed, though Bianchi thought it wasn't because she was amused. "Not that you'll have much choice, probably. Don't delude yourself into falling in love after you marry, either. Do your duty and give the man his children, and then leave him to find his pleasures where he chooses. That's the only way for women like us to be happy."

"Yes, Mama," Bianchi said, when it became clear that her mother was waiting for a response. It wasn't really the answer she wanted to give, so she thought about it carefully before she asked, "Are there ways for other women to be happy?"

"Of course there are." Her mother flipped her hoop over to tie off a knot and then snipped the silk off close to the cloth. "Be wary of other women, child. They're not your friends. They never will be." Then she looked up, glancing at Bianchi's work, and clicked her tongue. "For pity's sake, child, what mess have you made of things now?"

They didn't speak of men, and women, or happiness, any more that afternoon, but Bianchi didn't forget her mother's advice.

* * *

 

As with most things related to Cavallone, the first time they actually did something about all the flirting was an accident. Bianchi was certain of that because she couldn't see any way that Cavallone could have planned it—even if she _were_ inclined to give his dignity the benefit of the doubt. (Which she wasn't.)

It happened like this: the Barassi had been getting uppity since Tsuna's official confirmation as the Ninth's heir and had mistaken him for an easy target. Reborn, as was his wont, was mostly interested in this because it provided yet another opportunity for him to put Tsuna through his paces.

Whether one cared for his methods or not, Reborn knew how to get results from his students.

He also insisted on a policy of complete non-interference, which left Tsuna and his Guardians to deal with the Barassi's attempts on Tsuna's life themselves, and Bianchi and Cavallone at loose ends. Not that this was anything new to either of them at this point; as far as Reborn was concerned, they had both passed from "useful training aids" to "interested bystanders" a while ago.

Even so, the Barassi dispatched a group of foot soldiers to keep them busy the night they finally made their move, though the small size of the group was almost insulting. Bianchi would have taken offense had she actually given enough of a damn about the Barassi to bother, but decided not to in the end. The diversionary attack was an empty gesture, one that any sensible boss would have known wasn't necessary. But Giorgio Barassi wasn't really known for his good sense, and Bianchi wasn't going to stop him if he wanted to throw his men's lives away.

It bothered Cavallone, though. At least Bianchi supposed that was why he looked so grim as Romario laid down a pattern of covering fire while she and Dino took the little squad apart. "This is so _unnecessary_," he said when the last man was down, gurgling feebly around the poisoned cupcake Bianchi had rammed down his throat.

Bianchi didn't recall asking him what he was thinking, but let it pass. Bosses—at least the ones that Reborn trained—took things like this hard. "Barassi is an idiot," she said instead, even though it was manifestly obvious in the way that Barassi was attacking the Vongola in the first place.

Futility of the gesture aside, it hadn't been a bad little ambush, and would have been lively if the Barassi had bothered with more men. Romario seemed to think the same; his usually bland expression was harried. "Boss," he said. "Miss Bianchi. If you would care to let me secure the area?"

Bianchi could have been annoyed by that, but Cavallone gave her a quick apologetic look, one that said, _He can't help himself,_ and she held her tongue. "Of course," Cavallone said, and so Bianchi let herself be shuttled along with him to a safe place behind Cavallone lines.

Romario's flustered expression didn't ease until they were settled in a comfortable den that could have been transported straight from home. Then he fussed over her comfort until she glared at him, and Cavallone sent him away.

"Sorry." Cavallone had the good sense to look embarrassed on his man's behalf. "Romario's old-fashioned."

Bianchi rolled her eyes. "Really? I hadn't noticed." Not that it was unusual in men of a certain age and up. They never had adjusted to the idea of female hitmen very well.

"It's not his fault." Cavallone said. "He just can't quite forget who your father is. I think it makes his teeth itch not to treat you with the proper sorts of manners."

"My father has nothing to do with me," Bianchi said, grinding it out from behind an icy wall of anger.

Cavallone blinked, looking surprised at first, and then rueful. He raised his hands. "Of course he doesn't. It's just that Romario can't help thinking that he should. Like I said. Old-fashioned."

"Times change," Bianchi said.

"Don't they just," Cavallone said, and ran a hand through the bright mess of his hair. "Anyway. Sorry about that. I swear it's not that he doesn't know that you can care of yourself. It's just that old habits die really hard with him."

"Right," Bianchi drawled, somewhat soothed, and studied him. "Why are you apologizing for him?"

Cavallone gave her a look like he didn't quite understand the question. "He's my right hand," he said, like it was just as simple as that.

Now who was being old-fashioned? "I can take care of myself." She settled herself on the couch and arranged herself against its deep cushions. One good thing about Romario's solicitousness was that this wasn't a bad place to wait out the crisis, especially if things ran long. She didn't miss the way Cavallone watched her, his eyes lingering on her legs as she crossed one over the other. "I don't need coddling."

"Of course you don't," he said.

Bianchi half-expected him to come up with some inanity about her independence being what he liked best about her, or worse, something about how she deserved to be looked after anyway. He surprised her by not doing either. "So it'll probably be a while before Tsuna gets the Barassi wrapped up," he said. "Can I offer you a drink while we wait?"

Was it interesting that he refused to play by any of the rules? Or just irritating? "I suppose," she said.

What they'd both forgotten, though, was that Romario had left them. Wherever Dino's men happened to be at the moment, it wasn't nearby. Cavallone made it to the sideboard without any problems, and even managed to pour the drinks without spilling the whisky or breaking the glasses, but when he turned back to her, he tripped on some invisible lump in the rug. Bianchi watched it happen in something like slow motion: the way Cavallone lurched, graceless, hands coming up as he lost his balance. The whisky arched out of the glasses, amber in the lamplight, and a look of comical dismay crossed Cavallone's face as he realized that his hands were full and that he was about to sprawl, face-first, across the carpet.

Bianchi found herself moving before she quite knew it, launching herself from the couch to catch him. It was a stupid move; she knew it before she had even gotten in his way and spread her hands against his chest to catch his weight. Cavallone had the advantage of her in height and bulk, not to mention inertia. They went down together in a tangle of limbs and the sharp smell of the alcohol, and Bianchi's own grunted profanity as her back met the floor and Cavallone landed on top of her. "How in God's name have you managed not to kill yourself through sheer ineptitude?" she demanded, breathlessly, and thumped his shoulder with her fist.

"You know, I ask myself that _all the time_," Cavallone said, with a breath of laughter. "Figure I'm just lucky."

"You're _something_." Bianchi thumped his shoulder again. "And you're heavy, too. Get off."

"Sorry, sorry!" Cavallone raised himself up onto an elbow, which was a relief as far as being able to breathe went. Then he stopped, arrested by something that left him staring down at her. Bianchi was just drawing breath to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing when he said, softly, "You really are beautiful."

And how was a person supposed to stay on guard against something like that? Especially when not two minutes ago he'd demonstrated how singularly clumsy he was, which made it next to impossible to take him seriously? It was impossible, just like Cavallone himself. Bianchi stared back at him, uncomfortably sure that the reason her cheeks felt warm was because she was blushing like some idiot girl being paid her first compliment.

Cavallone took that like it was encouragement, or permission, or something, and brushed a lock of her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. For such a simple gesture, it was remarkably disarming. Bianchi was suddenly, acutely aware of the warmth of his body pressing against hers, and the knee between hers, and the sharp edge of unexpected desire slicing through her.

If he'd done anything, said anything, just then, she would have seized on it and taken back control of the moment, told him off for presuming too much and taking liberties with her person, maybe with a little bit of poison cooking to underline the point. But Cavallone was so much _smarter_ than he ever let on, and stayed poised over her, waiting for her to react and still wearing that soft, wondering look on his face.

Bianchi cursed again and seized control of things the only other way she knew how. Cavallone's shirt provided a useful fistful of cloth to grip as she lifted her head and kissed him, sloppy and as ruthless as she knew how to be.

Cavallone made a surprised sound against her mouth, like he hadn't expected this particular reaction, but opened his mouth to hers and kissed back with marked interest.

He had it in him to take it slow and languorous; she could feel it in the way his tongue stroked against hers and his lips moved, unhurried and coaxing. There were all kinds of reasons that was no good, ones that didn't really bear thinking about and ones that were practical. Besides, there was no point in letting him get away with thinking he was in charge of this, so Bianchi closed her teeth on his lower lip and sucked on it. When he groaned against her mouth, surprised, and his hips shifted against hers, betraying how much he liked that, Bianchi hummed, satisfied, and did it again.

Cavallone got the idea at that point, and if the sound he made against her mouth was wry, Bianchi didn't really care. His hands were sure enough when they slid up her sides, warm through the cotton of her shirt, and they felt good on her breasts when he stroked them. She arched into them as heat began to curl itself low in her belly, aching and insistent.

Cavallone's mouth moved against hers, shaping the syllables of her name. He made a startled sound when Bianchi reached down and cupped the front of his jeans. "Here?" he asked, startled and breathless. "Like _this_?" And then he groaned as she squeezed. "Oh—oh _fuck_."

"What's the matter, Cavallone, you not up for it?" she asked, squeezing again as his hips pressed against her hand, cock hard through the layers of denim.

His eyes were hot, sparking just a bit, when he raised his head to look at her, but all he said was, "You know I'm willing if you are."

"Then let's do this," Bianchi told him, and thumbed the button of his fly open.

Cavallone gave her one last look, like he was searching her face for something. Whatever it was, he must have found it, because he nodded. "All right," he said, softly, and bent his head to kiss her again.

He stopped holding back after that, and all of a sudden his hands and mouth were everywhere, deft as he peeled her out of her clothes. He found places to touch and kiss that made her breath come short in her throat at the shocking pleasure of it: the insides of her wrists and the place under her jaw, the skin low on her belly and the insides of her thighs, till she was throbbing with need and nearly clawing at his shoulders. "Come _on_," she told him, when he was taking his sweet time with his jeans and the condom, and he gave her a quick, hot smile before catching his hands under her ass, lifting her hips and angling them just so as he slid inside her.

Bianchi couldn't help the gasping sound she made at the stretch of him, satisfyingly hard against the formless ache of want. She dug her fingers into his shoulders as he groaned. "God," he said, his muscles shivering under her fingers as he held still above her. "God, Bianchi..."

"Yeah," she said, and wrapped a leg around his hips, flexing up against him and gasping a little at the slide and the friction. He whined, low in his throat, and the movement sent heat rippling through her. "C'mon, Cavallone, show me what you've got."

"Bianchi," he said again, like a prayer or a curse, and did, driving against her fast and hard.

She groaned and wrapped herself around him, panting with the feeling of him inside her, full and heavy. She held onto his shoulders as he braced a hand against the floor and the hard rhythm of his hips rolling against hers sent pleasure climbing her spine. When her orgasm caught her, it shook her relentlessly, driving her clean out of her head and leaving her lax against the floor as Cavallone arched over her, gasping her name and coming undone.

He sprawled over her, afterwards, and his warm heavy weight trapped her against the floor. Bianchi tried to muster the energy to care, but it was impossible to do when her entire body felt like it was glowing. It was also hard to care about the fact that she hadn't meant to actually let the man fuck her, either, not when it was so unexpectedly satisfying, and part of her wondered why she hadn't done this _weeks_ ago.

At least they'd gotten it out of the way, now, she thought, idly. So there was that taken care of, anyway.

* * *

 

The first time Bianchi poisoned her brother was an accident.

She was eleven, old enough that it was, as her mother said, past time that she learned to cook and bake. Bianchi wasn't sure why that was; their Family wasn't the most distinguished of Families, but it was prominent enough that whatever marriage she ended up making would be a good one—good enough to let her employ a cook, at least. But her mother insisted, with a frown that made the lines around her mouth groove more deeply: "Every woman should know how to cook. Men expect their wives to be able to make the things they like to eat."

When Mama said things like that, there was no budging her, even if Bianchi wondered about them and how they fit with the fact that Miss Gokudera had stopped coming to visit a little over a year ago. Bianchi knew why she'd stopped coming, knew what and how it had happened, though she probably wasn't supposed to.

She wasn't supposed to know that her father's frequent business trips to Palermo were to visit an apartment there, and the lovely dancer who lived in it, either. Really, it was amazing what the foot soldiers and the servants would say to each other when they'd forgotten that she could hear them.

"We'll begin with cookies," her mother said, and Bianchi nodded, though she felt out of sorts and the small of her back ached, and cookies didn't really sound all that great. She measured and sifted the dry ingredients as her mother instructed her anyway, and was beating the butter and sugar together by hand when Eugenio came slipping into the kitchen.

He'd probably expected to find their cook Teresa, maybe to beg a snack from her, because he stopped short when he saw that it was Bianchi and her mother. His look of dismay changed to one that was cautious and wide-eyed and didn't have any business being on a four-year-old's face.

"What do you want?" her mother snapped, when she noticed him.

He flinched, and Bianchi felt sorry for him, the poor kid, for getting stuck in this family. "I was—I just—um, nothing." He edged himself backwards as he said it, voice soft. Placating.

"Then don't bother us. We're busy," Mama told him.

It was unfair to be that curt with him, though she couldn't say it out loud. Bianchi bent her head over the bowl, biting down on the things that she couldn't say, and beat the pale yellow of the butter and the sugar more fiercely, putting her anger into that.

"Sorry," he said, softly, and went away again.

"I never knew such a bothersome child," Mama said, and then, "You've beaten that quite enough, I think. Now add the eggs."

Bianchi bit down the surge of her anger and cracked the eggs into the bowl as directed.

Later, when the cookies were done, cooling in neat rows on the wire racks, Bianchi filched a pair of them and wrapped them in a paper napkin before going in search of Eugenio. He was easy to find; his favorite place was the music room. When she came in, he was sitting at the piano, short legs dangling off the bench. His hands were still too small to span the keys properly, but he picked at the melody anyway.

Blood would tell, Bianchi supposed, and said his name softly to get his attention. He looked up, wary, though that eased from his face when he saw that it was only her. "I brought you some cookies." She crouched by the piano bench, bringing her face level with his. "I made them myself."

Unfolding the napkin and showing him the cookies earned her a shy, delighted smile. "Thank you," he said, and took one, biting into it.

"You're welcome," Bianchi told him, and watched him chew, wondering how to tell him not to mind their mother's—her mother's—moods, that it wasn't his fault. "You know—"

He made a peculiar sound, a choking gurgle, that Bianchi didn't understand at first. The cookie fell out of his hand, and he scrabbled at his throat, face turning red and then purple as Bianchi shrieked for someone to come and help them.

Anaphylaxis, the doctor suggested later, though he sounded doubtful about the diagnosis. He ordered a batter of allergy tests for Eugenio that didn't turn up anything unusual. No one thought to test the cookies until well after Bianchi had flushed them all down the toilet, one by one, out of guilt. They tested the ingredients instead, Teresa's big canisters of flour and sugar and salt, the little can of baking powder and the butter and eggs and vanilla, but didn't find anything there, either.

It took them all a ridiculously long time to connect his allergic episodes to the turns Bianchi took in the kitchen, trying to find something she could make for Eugenio that wouldn't make him sick. By the time anyone realized what was happening, it was too late: the damage had already been done. He'd developed a psychosomatic reaction to the very sight of her and ran away whenever he saw her coming.

It was too bad, too. Bianchi was pretty sure that aside from a few of the servants, she'd been the only one who actually wanted to be nice to him.

* * *

 

The door was as cheap as her apartment; if it didn't do a damn thing about Dino's voice, it sure as hell didn't keep the sound of her laughter private, either. Not that Bianchi particularly cared about that, at least until Dino rapped on the door and then opened it, poking his head inside and giving her an uncertain look. "Um," he said. "Can I have my shoes? Please?"

The first flush of her panic had passed; Bianchi took a breath and said, "Yeah. Sure."

He sidled in, clearly wary of her mood. Bianchi watched him pick his way through the mess of her stuff; he'd finished getting dressed, but in a hurry. Half the buttons of his shirt were done up wrong and his hair was standing up every which way. He snuck hangdog looks at her whenever he seemed to think she might not be looking, ones that were puzzled and maybe a little hurt, so Bianchi stopped looking at him.

Not that her resolve lasted long when he cleared his throat. "So, um. Is my coffee really that bad?"

"Jesus," Bianchi said, "you are such an idiot."

It said a lot about Dino Cavallone that his only reaction to that was to say, "Yeah, I get that a lot," and rub the back of his neck while he looked at her and waited for some kind of explanation.

He was so freaking good at being patient. Jesus, how had she let herself get this far in?

Bianchi closed her eyes and steadied herself. "Since when are you not clumsy around me?" she asked, managing to get that out in a fairly even tone.

"Oh," he said. "Um. That."

Bianchi's eyes popped open; he had a guilty look around his eyes. "What do you mean, 'Oh, that'?"

"Well," Dino said, drawing it out to several impossibly wheedling syllables. "I bet you wouldn't believe that Romario was really paranoid and took the apartment right above yours?"

"Be serious, Cavallone," Bianchi said.

His shoulders rose and fell against hers as he sighed. "Yeah, I figured." He lifted a hand and ran it through his hair, which only made it stand up more. "Means just about what you'd think it does."

Oh, Christ. "I'm not one of your people," Bianchi told him as a little bubble of panic rose in her chest. She was tempted to throw him out again or to run herself, though that wasn't likely to do them any good. Instead she paced a furious circle around the room. "For God's sake, you can't just go dragging people into your Family—"

"Um." Dino reached out and caught her hand on her second circuit, forestalling her. "No, I know that." The smile he gave her was tilted and a little sheepish. "Guess I should spell it out, huh?"

Bianchi opened her mouth to tell him not to bother, but he brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek before she could warn him off, and said, like it was the simplest, most obvious thing in the world: "I love you."

* * *

 

Nice girls weren't supposed to be able to poison people with nothing but their hands and a bad attitude, and so Bianchi presented her family with something of a problem. If it hadn't been such a pain to deal with—she had to take her meals alone, and couldn't be present when others were eating, lest she do something unfortunate to the food—she might have enjoyed the attention. It wasn't often that Papa could be bothered to take notice of her these days, especially when he spent so little time at home.

"There's nothing for it," he said, when Bianchi had demonstrated what she could do to a glass of wine and a plate of pasta just by giving them a look and thinking a little about the churning in her gut and the jangling of her nerves. "We'll have to get someone in to train her how to control herself, that much is clear. Discreetly, of course."

"Of course." Mama sounded impatient, like she couldn't believe he'd said something that obvious. She frowned at Bianchi. "I've already spoken to the servants, of course."

"Good." Papa's frowned matched her mother's. It was probably the first time they'd agreed on anything in months, Bianchi thought distantly, while she tried to figure out why her poisonous cooking skills would be enough to unite them. "I'll reinforce the message." He tapped his fingers against his desk, and then gave Bianchi a smile that was hearty and fake. "Don't worry, my girl. We'll find a way to fix this right up. We'll have you out right on time, and the boys won't know what hit them."

"I... yes, Papa," Bianchi said, as it clicked into place.

Her parents exchanged a few more words, and then the interview was over. Bianchi followed her mother out of his study, mulling their mutual concern over. "Is it really that bad?" she asked, when they were ensconced in her mother's sitting room.

Mama paused in the act of taking up her sewing, and frowned at her. "Use your head, child," she said, impatient. "What man is going to want to marry a woman who can poison him at the breakfast table?"

"Maybe I won't get married," Bianchi said, testing out the idea.

"Don't be ridiculous," her mother said, unwinding a length of green silk from its spool and snipping it off. "What else will you be good for, if you don't marry?"

* * *

 

Bedding Cavallone was only supposed to happen the one time, or so Bianchi had told herself, but it didn't work out quite like that. All of a sudden Cavallone seemed to be there every time she turned around, giving her that unexpectedly sweet smile or ghosting a hand along her hip in passing. Sometimes he even caught her for a quick stolen kiss while Romario pretended to be invisible. If it hadn't been so disconcerting, Bianchi supposed she would have had to admire Cavallone's sheer brass.

She opened her mouth one day to ask him just what the hell he thought he was doing, anyway, when he seemed to be struck by a thought. "Oh, hey," he said, and gave her a look that was almost nervous, "Um. You know, I probably should have asked this sooner, but. Um. Reborn isn't going to kill me for this, is he?"

Given his timing, "this" could have been anything from the fact that they were naked together to the way his fingers were moving over her breasts to the whole strange fuckbuddies thing that they had going. Bianchi stifled the ridiculous urge to ask him which "this" he meant. "Maybe that's something you should have asked a little sooner," she said, as tartly as she could manage when the slowness of his hands made her want to purr.

"Well, I thought about it!" His grin was tiny, just a little mischievous. "But I figured, hey, you're a grown woman, you know your own business, and stuff. But then he started giving me some funny looks, so, you know. I wondered." He peered at her again, hair flopping into his eyes. "You don't think he knows, do you?"

"Don't be an idiot," Bianchi cuffed him, which was no more than he deserved for asking such a stupid question. "Of course he knows. You might as well have started wearing a sign that said, 'Hey, I'm getting laid!'" She reflected on that, and added, "In neon." It was almost cute how excited Dino was about it, sort of like a puppy who'd just learned a new trick.

Cavallone's eyes went wide, almost comically so. "Wait, he does?"

"Idiot," Bianchi said, again. "I told him myself." And he'd already known, or at least he'd suspected. But that was Reborn all over. Sometimes she thought he made a hobby out of faking omniscience.

"...oh my God." Cavallone looked so freaked out about it that Bianchi nearly laughed. "He really is going to kill me, isn't he?"

"Seriously, how are you such an idiot?" Bianchi smacked his shoulder, and let her head drop back against the pillow. "You said it yourself," she said, looking at the ceiling. "I'm a grown woman, and I make my own decisions. And I don't belong to any man. Not even Reborn." And not Dino Cavallone, either. "Besides, Reborn knows I can defend my own honor perfectly well."

Cavallone let out a breath. "Well, that's reassuring."

"I'm sure it is," Bianchi said, looking at the patterns in the ceiling.

He didn't ask what she was thinking about, for which she was grateful. After a moment, he went back to what he'd been doing, hands warm and sure against her skin, and she let herself be distracted from her thoughts.

It wasn't until much later, when Cavallone had gone away, that she even remembered that she'd meant to put an end to their little dalliance.

* * *

 

The first time Bianchi met Reborn, it was in her father's study, and she'd stopped and stared openly at the sight of the infant who was sitting in one of Papa's big chairs. He was wearing a tiny suit and drinking a cup of espresso, and was so very small that he had to stretch his legs out against the seat.

He stared back, eyes dark. Try as she might, Bianchi couldn't figure out what he was thinking. When he finally spoke, it was to ask, in a high, piping voice, "This is the girl?"

"This is Bianchi," Papa said.

The baby—and he must have been an Arcobaleno, Bianchi decided, amazed to see one sitting with her father, discussing _her_—nodded. "It's an interesting problem," he said, and adjusted his hat. "I'll see what I can do."

"We will be profoundly grateful for whatever assistance you can give us," her father said, and some other things besides that. Bianchi was pretty sure that the Arcobaleno was no longer listening to him. He was just looking at her. Inspecting her, she thought.

He interrupted Papa mid-speech by hopping down from his chair. "There's no time to begin like the present," he announced. "Come on."

Then he strolled out of the room.

Bianchi looked to her father, whose face went stiff, like he was annoyed but trying not to show it. "Well, go after him," he said, and shook his head. "If Reborn's going to teach you how to control your... problem, then we must put up with his little quirks."

"Yes, Papa," Bianchi said, and turned to chase after the Arcobaleno. Reborn.

Her father's voice stopped her on the threshold. "Work hard," he said. "Get this sorted quickly."

"Yes, Papa," Bianchi said again, and went out.

Reborn was sitting on a side table in the hall next to a vase of flowers that was as tall as he was, waiting for her. His feet dangled off the edge of the table.

It was disconcerting how still he was.

For a moment they looked at each other, taking stock of each other. "So," Reborn said, presently. "I'm going to teach you how to use your poison."

Bianchi considered that carefully. "Papa said you would teach me how to control it," she pointed out.

"Did he?" Reborn sounded utterly disinterested by the prospect. He hopped down from his perch. "Come on. We have a lot to do."

"Yes, Reborn," Bianchi said, allowing herself a smile, and decided that perhaps she liked this small person and his brusque manners.

* * *

 

Reborn was far more demanding than any of Bianchi's other tutors had ever been, but Bianchi found that she didn't mind. The stacks of books he gave her to read were interesting, all about different kinds of poison and the things that they did to the body. She liked the gruesome details better than her lessons in mathematics or her mother's endless attempts to turn her into a lady.

Reborn interfered with those lessons, sometimes, by appearing and announcing that it was time for Bianchi to recite a lesson from her readings or to go on another endless cross-country run. "It's good for the body, and good for the soul," he said the first time Mama asked what on earth he needed to take Bianchi _running_ for.

Not that her mother's questions or protests mattered in the end. Reborn was the acknowledged expert, so Mama had to let Bianchi go, though she never did so without admonishing Bianchi not to let herself get too much sun and to be careful to mind Reborn's instructions. Bianchi ignored her injunctions, except for the one about obeying Reborn, and kept her own thoughts about Reborn's peculiar training methods to herself.

She didn't realize what he was aiming at till the day that he watched her turn a glass of wine into fizzing acid at twenty paces and then asked, "So. What are you going to do with this?"

"Beg pardon?" Bianchi replied, since he was fond of non sequiturs, but was generally willing to clarify them if asked politely.

"The poison." He sprang from the chair from which he'd been observing to stand on the table itself, and looked her in the eye. "What are your plans for it?"

"You know what my plans are," Bianchi said, a little blankly, because what else had six months of lessons in self-control been for? She could generally restrain her talent for rendering food toxic now, unless provoked beyond her endurance. She could even, if she concentrated, choose to deliberately poison something, which she'd just demonstrated for him.

Reborn made one of his sounds, a tiny snort, that meant that he thought she was being stupid. "I know what your parents' plans for you are," he said. "Don't try to tell me that they're the same as your plans."

"I—" Bianchi said, and stopped. "My plans don't matter," she said. She dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from turning the cups and bowls of food on the table into anything but what they already were. "So there's no point."

Reborn snorted again and walked down the table. He bent over the glass of acid, which still seethed slightly, clearly gone off—the only thing on the table that she'd changed out of the settings for eight people, which had taken a lot of careful effort. "So you're content to be just another one of the pretty brood mares?" he asked.

Bianchi _knew_ that deceptively idle tone was meant to provoke, she _knew_ it. Even so all the other plates and glasses of wine began to fizz and bubble with the sudden spike of her fury. "You know I don't have a choice."

Reborn straightened up and eyed the corrupted food that surrounded him on every side. Then he gave her a smile, one of the ancient ones that had no place showing up on an infant's face. "There's always a choice."

"Not for daughters," Bianchi said, and pulled out a chair to sit. She glared at the rows of food, proof that she'd lost control of herself, and sighed. "Not for me."

"Don't be an idiot." Reborn crossed the table again and aimed a sharp kick at her elbow. "There aren't choices for foolish girls who wallow in self pity. Other people have plenty of options open to them."

Bianchi rubbed her elbow and transferred her glare to Reborn. He ignored it and stared back blandly, until her curiosity got the better of her temper and she asked, "What kinds of options?"

"Depends," Reborn told her, and tilted his head, looking her over. "Do you think you could ever kill someone?"

"Could I...?" Bianchi echoed, and blinked at him. "Um. Do you mean accidentally? Or on purpose?"

The only answer that earned was a snort, but it was answer enough.

Bianchi leaned back in her chair, still holding her elbow absently, though her mind wasn't on the ache of it any more. "You think I should become a hitman."

"I think your talents are uniquely suited to it." He was as bland about it as a man making a pronouncement about the weather. "And possibly your personality, too." He adjusted his hat. "It's something to think about," he added from beneath its brim, and hopped down from the table. "Clean up after yourself while you do."

Bianchi sat for a long time before she moved to clear the table, thinking very hard. Women didn't become hitmen... not often, anyway, but...

It certainly did make for interesting thinking while she worked.

* * *

 

Her brother barricaded himself in his closet when he saw her coming. "Go away!" he yelled from inside. "Leave me alone! I'm not hungry!"

"I didn't bring any food," Bianchi told him, and set her hand against the door. "I just—I came to say goodbye."

The silence that answered that went on for so long that she thought that he wasn't going to say anything at all. Then he said, "Why?"

"I'm leaving," Bianchi told him. Her throat wanted to close on the words, but she refused to let it. "Going away. I... I probably won't be back. Papa says not, anyway." She was going against his orders, just by coming here to say goodbye to her brother—well, maybe not her brother, anymore. Depended on who a person asked. "I just wanted to let you know. And tell you that if you ever need anything, I'm still your sister. No matter what. Okay? So if you ever need anything, you let me know."

The silence this time was shorter, and the door opened just a crack. "Where are you going?"

Brothers, honestly. Try to be emotional at them, and they focused on the things that didn't matter at all. "Away," Bianchi told him, since she didn't really know herself. Reborn had said something about sending her to a friend for training, and that was as much as he'd committed to. "And I've got to do it soon. Remember what I said, okay? If you need anything—"

There wasn't any time to finish; she heard one of the servants coming, calling for him. "Gotta go," she said, and scooped up her rucksack and ran, hoping that what she'd said would be enough, that he'd remember, no matter what anyone told him. And hoping that he'd be okay.

Poor kid. He was definitely on his own, now.

* * *

 

"I," Bianchi said, stupidly. "You. You _what_?"

"Love you," he repeated, casually running his knuckles along her jaw, though it didn't do much to hide the anxious look in his eyes.

"You must be joking," Bianchi said, brain skittering back from the enormity of that simple statement. "Or crazy. Or both."

"I'm not joking. And I'm not any crazier than anyone else we know." He pursed his lips, clearly taking stock of their mutual acquaintances. "Probably less crazy than most of them, really, when you think about it. I'm pretty sure that I skew towards the saner end of the spectrum. I mean, seriously, Kyouya? Xanxus? I ask you." He stopped, and made a face. "Christ, I'm babbling, please shut me up before I really embarrass myself."

"You spar with Hibari Kyouya for the hell of it," Bianchi told him, "And you sleep with a hitman with a history and a reputation for being crazy in love with one of the Arcobaleno. You do _not_ skew towards sanity, sorry." Then she shook herself, because that was completely beside the point. "You can't possibly be in love with me."

"No, I'm pretty sure than I can." He was starting to look seriously worried now, brow crinkling up as he looked at her. He was still holding onto her hand, and Bianchi wasn't entirely sure he'd let go if she tried to get away. "I didn't think it was going to come as this much of a surprise to you."

Of course he didn't. The idiot. "What did you _think_ I was going to do?" Bianchi demanded. "Fall into your arms, weeping for joy?"

"I wouldn't have stopped you." His mouth quirked a little, wry. "But no, I didn't expect that." He touched her face again, fingertips stroking against her cheek, brushing her hair back and tucking it behind her ear. "I did hope you'd be happy about it, though."

"Happy," Bianchi repeated, staring at him. "What is there to be _happy_ about?"

Dino blinked. "Um," he said, looking genuinely puzzled by the question. "It's love. Most people generally think that's a good thing."

"I," Bianchi told him, "am not most people. And neither are you."

Dino raised his eyebrows. "Well, I'd noticed the first part, I guess. I'm not seeing the problem, though."

"No, you don't get it, do you?" Bianchi flapped her free hand around. "You're a _boss_, for fuck's sake."

"Yeah, you know, the rulebook doesn't actually say that we're required to be heartless bastards," he said, smiling just a little. "Contrary to popular opinion, we're people too."

And he still wasn't getting it. "You idiot," she said, because it was like he'd forgotten whose daughter she even was. "Bosses don't fall in love with hitmen."

"This one does," Dino said.

* * *

 

Bianchi was fifteen when she heard word that her father's heir had run away from home and cursed her brother's timing for being completely shitty. She was freelancing for the Vongola just then—her first big job, and she hadn't needed a call from Reborn to know that she couldn't fuck it up, or to tell her that if she did well on it, she'd have her foot in the door. But it meant that she couldn't go haring off to find the kid, not with the Vongola watching her every move and the Valetti thing hanging in the balance.

The best she could do was leave instructions with her landlord to keep an eye out for an eight-year-old with silver hair and to take him in if he happened to come around looking for her. There wasn't anything else to be done beyond that; either he would turn up or he wouldn't, and she had her job to think of. Bianchi threw herself into that, rather than worrying about Eugenio and what could have made him run away like that, and managed to take three of the Valetti underbosses down herself. (She used a plate of cookies for the third, from one of her mother's recipes; the irony pleased her.) It was neatly done, if she did say so herself, and earned some considering looks from the Vongola and a tiny nod from Reborn the next time they met. So that was good.

Her brother never did show up.

* * *

 

By the time Bianchi met her brother again, he'd changed his name and had come under the questionable influence of Shamal the Trident. Bianchi approved of the name change. Their father had been trying rather too hard with "Eugenio" and when she looked up "Hayato" it was clear that his mother had known precisely what she was naming her son. Shamal she was much less sure about, but he seemed to have a careless sort of affection for her brother—Hayato now, she supposed—which wasn't a bad thing at all.

It was good that someone did, anyway. Hayato went green the moment he clapped eyes on her, and immediately threw up. And then he shouted a lot. It was nearly impossible to make anything out of his tirade, but Bianchi got the gist of it just fine: he didn't want to see her ever again, she was as bad as their father, he hated her and their family and they could all go to hell. Bianchi looked at the set, suffering lines of his face and told herself that he was only ten. She went away again, and mostly kept track of him through Shamal and the hitmen's rumor mill as he bounced around Italy, from Family to Family, working as a hitman and picking up the sobriquet "Smoking Bomb" thanks to his knack for demolitions work.

She wondered whether he realized that the reason no Family would take him in for long was that everyone knew that he was Luciano Falco's son, even if he was going by his birth name now. He was a smart kid; he probably did.

* * *

 

"Are all men disgusting?" Bianchi demanded of Reborn during the early part of the Cetrulli business. It was after an evening of discussing strategy with a gathering of the Vongola and allied Family underbosses, during which she'd had to ignore a whole series of filthy comments and no less than four attempts to feel her up, and she was striving to keep her irritation at bay long enough to have a cup of tea.

Reborn was busy cleaning his gun. "Yes," he said, when he finally got around to answering. "You may as well get used to it."

"Great." Bianchi scowled when his mouth quirked. "Stop laughing at me."

"Half their fun comes from how easy it is to embarrass you." Reborn lifted his gun and squinting down the barrel. "When you stop acting like a nervous virgin, they'll get bored. It's all about the reaction. And the persona you project."

"That's easy for you to say," Bianchi retorted.

"Mm." Reborn put the gun down and looked at her directly. "You should sleep with someone and get it over with," he said, using the particularly bored tone that he liked for making shocking statements.

Even knowing that didn't stop Bianchi from blushing. "_Reborn_."

"It's the truth." He began putting his gun back together. "You're what, nineteen now? That's past time. And you have more latitude for it, since you're a hitman. As long as you're reasonably discreet and you don't get pregnant, no one's going to care." He paused, perhaps rethinking that statement. "You can get pregnant eventually, if that's what you want, but you'll have to wait till you're more established and you have a professional reputation that will support it. Getting pregnant now would pretty much ruin you." He glanced at her. "Tell me if I need to get Lal to give you the speech about birth control."

Bianchi was pretty sure that her cheeks were going to catch _fire_, they felt so hot. "We had that talk," she said. At the time she'd thought Lal's blunt advice had been embarrassing, but somehow the prosaic way Reborn treated the whole thing was worse. "I can't believe this."

"Men are disgusting," he reminded her, eyes glinting just a bit. "Though I am told that we have our uses, if you happen to have an itch that needs scratching."

"This is the most horrifyingly embarrassing conversation _ever_," Bianchi declared. "I'm going to pretend that we never had it."

"Suit yourself," Reborn said.

The ridiculous thing was that once Reborn put the idea in her head, it wouldn't leave, which was possibly even _more_ disturbing and embarrassing than having to smile politely when the Cizeta's Vito talked about how he'd let her cook breakfast for him any time, or when Benito from the Vieri slapped her on the ass whenever he had the chance.

Maybe the solution was a compromise, she decided. Unattached women, at least the ones who were young and hadn't made their reputations, were almost like a challenge, like Reborn had suggested. Until she made herself a proper name as a hitman, she was going to have to seem less approachable.

A boyfriend, then. Just to get the idiots to keep their grabby hands to themselves, and for... other things, too, if they happened to come up.

* * *

 

"You're sleeping with Cavallone, aren't you?"

Bianchi wasn't sure why the question surprised her; it wasn't like she'd worked particularly hard at keeping it a secret, at least among their little Namimori enclave. Nevertheless, it wasn't something she would have expected Hayato to concern himself with. She pushed her goggles up, rubbing at the place where they pinched against the bridge of her nose. "Yeah."

"I thought so." Hayato was frowning, like he wasn't sure how he was supposed to be reacting. Bianchi wondered whether he thought he should try to defend her sullied honor, like a good brother should. He did have the occasional outbreaks of astonishingly traditional manners, sometimes, as ludicrous as they were.

Evidently this was not to be one of them. He settled for saying, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Not even a little bit, she thought and did not say. "I'm a big girl," she murmured. "I know what I'm doing." And then, because she knew it would get a reaction, she added, "And besides, I'm on the pill."

"That's not—I didn't ask about that!" He flushed red, even though there might have been a brief flash of relief in his eyes. "God, I don't want to know!"

"Then you shouldn't ask about things like that," Bianchi told him, with all the primness she could muster.

Hayato made a face at her, irritated. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

So much for teasing him. "Don't worry," she said. "It's nothing serious."

He gave her a look that said, quite plainly, that he thought she was deluding herself. "You're sleeping with a boss," he said. "How can it not be serious?"

"Hitmen get to play by different rules," she said, shrugging. "We're just having a little fun to pass the time, Hayato. Don't worry about it. We both know what we're doing."

He gave her another one of his looks, a long one. "It'll be your funeral." Coming from him, a warning like that was pointed and unsubtle.

At least he cared enough to bother. "Believe me," Bianchi told him, "I am well aware of that."

* * *

 

"Damn it, Cavallone." Bianchi pushed away from Dino and extracted her hand from his. She ground her palms against her eyes until she could see fireworks in the dark behind her eyelids. "What on earth do you think you're going to do now? So you love me. What were you going to do, ask me to marry you?"

He didn't answer. When she opened her eyes again, he had a sheepish, guilty look on his face. "Oh my God," Bianchi said, horrified right down to her bones. "Oh my God, you were, weren't you? You idiot."

"Surely you didn't expect me to just keep on sleeping with you like this," he said, like it was the most ridiculous idea in the world.

"No, I didn't expect that."

She tried to keep her voice steady and even—she was a professional, for God's sake, she could damn well act like it—but Dino gave her a quick, searching look. "Okay, so... just what _did_ you expect?"

"I'm a hitman," Bianchi said, reaching for every last iota of professionalism that she could find to keep her voice steady. "I didn't expect anything, Cavallone. That's not how it works in my world."

Her stomach twisted at how hurt he looked. "You didn't..." he started, and stopped, and tried again. "So this was... what? Just a..."

The lie almost came easily. "A fling, I suppose," Bianchi supplied, when his powers of invention failed him, and watched him flinch. "A pleasant diversion. And it's been fun, of course. But that's all it's been. I thought you'd realized that."

First Dino's face went white. Then it went red, and angry, and that was good. Anger was definitely good. "I see," he said stiffly, though it was clear that the effort of keeping his voice from climbing was costing him. "I've made an ass out of myself, haven't I?"

"I'm sorry," Bianchi said, pouring as much false sincerity into it as she could. His eyes snapped in response. "I really thought you knew."

"Clearly I didn't," he said; the way he gathered his dignity up around him was impressive. "Forgive me for bothering you."

"No big deal," Bianchi said, as he turned away from her and smoothed his hands through his hair. She held onto her detachment with both hands and added, "It was fun while it lasted, you know?"

"I suppose so," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Of course," Bianchi told him. "Take care of yourself, Cavallone."

"And you, too," he managed, before he let himself out.

Bianchi was careful to give him plenty of time to get well away before she let go of her forced calm and curled in on herself to cry.

And this time, he didn't come back.

* * *

 

The thing about being young and attractive was that it meant that Bianchi had no shortage of candidates to choose from if all she wanted was a useful smokescreen of a boyfriend. Her choosiness made the job more difficult, and she approached the task the same way she approached her targets: conducting her research carefully, looking at the relative merits and flaws of the men around her and comparing them. She rejected Vincenzo because he had bad teeth, and Guido because he had a braying sort of laugh that grated on her nerves. Alessandro had a look around his eyes that she didn't like at all; Bianchi was pretty sure that he looked at her and saw a possible conquest, not a person, and that wouldn't do at all.

In the end she settled on one of the ambitious young underbosses for the Vieri Family who went by the name of Romeo. He was only a few years older than her and indolently good-looking. Better still, he hadn't made it obvious that he was trying to get into her pants, which Bianchi appreciated, and paid court to her in a way that was both thoughtful and deft.

He was gratifyingly attentive, too. Though the cold war between the Vongola and the Cetrulli was beginning to finally heat up, he still made time to take her out for dinner and dancing. There was also time for the lazy makeout sessions on the broken-down, squashy couch of Bianchi's apartment that left her breathless and dizzy with want. What she liked best about Romeo was that he was a gentleman about it, and didn't push for any more than she offered, until the night Bianchi said, against his ear, "Yes," and "please."

Afterwards, when she was lying breathless and dazed against his chest, he gathered her closer and murmured promises to her, visions of their future together, a glorious career that would be the envy of the mafia world, with love and every possible happiness to go with it. Bianchi wondered how he planned on doing that, since she couldn't quite imagine being any happier than she was just then. So she curled closer to him, sincerely regretting that she'd waited till the night before a mission to say yes.

The job took even less time than she'd anticipated, partially because her target was careless, and maybe because she rushed it a little in her eagerness to get home. Bianchi tried to feel guilty about that part, but couldn't exactly manage it when she wanted to get back Romeo and the sweetness of his mouth and his hands as quickly as possible. The extra time came as a bonus, and she hurried through her debriefing with the Vongola, anxious to go find Romeo again.

He was easy to find. There was a little bar that the Vieri underbosses had claimed for their own, which was where she looked first. It was dimly-lit and full of roomy booths and sold wine that wasn't half-bad, cheap as it was. Romeo was there with several of the underbosses he called friends. They were ranged around a table in the corner booth when Bianchi slipped in, laughing raucously at something Romeo had just said, and didn't notice her. Bianchi hung back, smiling and watching, until Carlo lifted his glass to make a toast and said, "To Romeo, for finally getting her to give it up!"

They all cheered as Bianchi felt her blood run cold. Surely they weren't—

Enzo called, "So, are the lady hitmen any better than ordinary women?"

Romeo's answering shrug was elaborate. "A woman's a woman," he said, lounging in his seat, lazy and self-satisfied. "They're all the same once the lights are out."

They hooted with laughter as Bianchi felt the first dull wash of fury and shame roll through her.

"Then what's the point of going to so much trouble?" Enzo asked, grinning, when they'd settled down a bit.

Romeo shrugged at him. "She's Falco's daughter, idiot. What do you think the point is?"

"Falco's got a son, doesn't he?" someone else asked. Bianchi didn't see who because she was too busy with the cold knot in her stomach.

"He's got a bastard," Carlo said. He was looking at Romeo with something like respect shining out of his expression. "Who's missing right now, anyway. You sly dog, you."

"It pays to—" Romeo began, and looked up. He stopped when he saw Bianchi standing there looking at him. She didn't know what kind of expression she was wearing, but he didn't say anything more and looked afraid.

That, Bianchi thought through the haze of her anger, was only appropriate.

"It pays to _what_?" Enzo asked, and then swiveled his head to see what Romeo was looking at. "Uh-oh. Looks like that cat's out of the bag."

There were no words that would do for her fury, and besides, she was beyond being able to string them together. Nor could she kill them all where they sat, so Bianchi did the next best thing. She spat on the floor at Romeo's feet and turned on her heel, stalking out and holding her head high, pretending with every step that she wasn't humiliated.

* * *

 

Reborn wasn't one for offering apologies, but he did listen as Bianchi ranted about Romeo, and when she stopped ranting and just started crying instead, which was better than an apology. And when Bianchi emerged from the crying phase and entered the bitter phase, and asked, "Do you suppose the world would miss him very much if I just killed him?" he said, mildly, "No, I doubt it. And it would be a favor to the Vieri."

Coming from Reborn, that was as good as permission, especially when he looked faintly regretful about her distress. That was some consolation. So was the way Romeo went down in the crossfire when they finally went to open war against the Cetrulli, gurgling and foaming at the mouth as his attractive face turned purple—an accident, she told the Vieri, because it certainly wasn't her fault that he'd stepped into the path of her poison cooking. It was, of course, the politest of fictions, but the Vieri accepted it graciously.

Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. The late unlamented Romeo's tongue had been loose enough that she had a _reputation_ now. And it persisted, even after she poisoned the first handful of fools who made the mistake of thinking that she was anyone's woman for the taking and earned herself a nickname, Poison Scorpion.

"This is ridiculous!" she raged to Reborn.

"I told you that it wasn't easy for women to be hitmen," he said. He didn't seem sorry for it. "How many have you killed so far?"

It wasn't particularly nice of him to sound so interested in that part, and Bianchi told him so. Then she relented, and told him, "Four." She cast herself down into a chair, hooking a leg over the arm and swinging her foot. "It doesn't seem to be stopping them."

"Some men like a _real_ challenge," he said with a shrug. "And since you're not attached to anyone..."

"No," Bianchi said, immediately. "Not again." Not when the only decent man she knew these days was a damn _baby_, and—actually. "Hmm," she said and sat up, looking Reborn over.

Reborn looked back, one eyebrow quirked just so. "What?"

"Tell me," Bianchi said, slowly, examining the idea from every angle, "how would you like a girlfriend?"

It wasn't often that anyone managed to surprise Reborn, so she savored the achievement of having done so as he blinked at her once, eyebrows shooting up. "You're not really my type," he said, finally. He was very grave about it, except for the hint of amusement lurking in his eyes.

She looked him over. "And that matters how, exactly?"

"I suppose you do have a point there." He seemed to be thinking about it, at any rate. "Do you honestly think that you could make anyone believe you?"

Bianchi smiled. "Try me."

His mouth curved up faintly, like he was imagining it, and Bianchi knew then that she had him. Reborn did have a reliably evil sense of humor, after all. "I think I shall look forward to it," he said, and so it was settled.

* * *

 

Hayato came into the orbit of the Vongola eventually, as almost everyone did sooner or later, especially if they were unaffiliated. Bianchi breathed a little easier about him then, because whatever else anyone could say about the Vongola, they looked out for their people—even the ones who were only loosely theirs. It gave her cause to see him, too, from time to time, which she was grateful for even if Hayato still wanted nothing to do with her. But that had its own uses; it kept people from making stupid assumptions about what kind of leverage Hayato and she could be for each other.

Bianchi did wonder, sometimes, late at night when sleep was eluding her, what their father thought of his children now that they'd both run away from the poisoned mess of their family. Did he care that they preferred to be Family-less hitmen rather than claim him for their father? Maybe he didn't think of it at all and was at work getting another bastard on some other pretty, hapless woman who didn't know any better. Bianchi hadn't heard anything either way. She really didn't care about it, either, till the day her father's right hand showed up on her doorstep and told her that her mother was dying, and wished to see her.

She didn't remember grabbing her go bag or the blur of the car ride home. Her father's man drove silently and left her to the jumble of her thoughts, which spun around and around inside her skull until they blurred into a kind of white noise that made no sense at all. They didn't still until she was standing in her mother's bedroom, where the familiar old scents of powder and perfume had to compete with the odors of sickness and encroaching death.

Her mother was thin and wasted, but wore a silk bed jacket whose elegant tailoring concealed the worst of the ravages her illness had wrought upon her. There was a silk scarf wrapped and folded around her head. She'd always been vain about her hair, Bianchi recalled, and took hold of the inanity of such a thought as an anchor as she and her mother looked at each other.

Her mother spoke first. "Those clothes don't suit you," she said.

Bianchi looked down at her cargo pants and the cropped and form-fitting top that she wore, then back at her mother. "They're comfortable," she said, fighting the urge to stuff her hand in pocket in order to hide the scorpion tattooed on it. "And they're practical."

Her mother moved, restlessly, thin fingers stroking against the coverlet. "I suppose." She lifted her hand, gesturing at the nurse who sat in the corner. "Leave us."

The nurse stood and bobbed her head. She paused by Bianchi on her way out. "Call me if she should have an episode," she murmured before exiting in a rustle of starched cloth and the measured tread of practical footwear.

Bianchi didn't know what constituted an episode, so she busied herself with dragging the nurse's chair over to the bedside and sitting. "You wanted to see me, Mama?" she asked when she'd arranged herself.

"I did." Mama looked at her, eyes hooded. Her mouth was framed by the lines that Bianchi remembered just beginning to form; they'd been etched deep now by pain. After a moment, her mother sighed. "My daughter. My great failure. You should have been a boy."

"I know that," Bianchi said, keeping her voice steady because the dying were allowed licenses that other people were not.

"You would have done well as a boy," her mother continued. It sounded like a practiced speech, one that didn't require an audience. "You would have made such a fine heir. You would have made him happy." She lapsed into silence, brooding.

Bianchi didn't suppose that her father was all that inclined to be happy at all, or that a firstborn son would have done much to change that, but it hardly mattered now.

"Is it good, this life you're living now?" Mama demanded, suddenly.

"I—yes, I think so," Bianchi told her, startled by the question. She fumbled for a better answer as her mother stared at her. "I—I'm good. And the Vongola are good employers. I'm happy."

"You're young," Mama said, with a little sniff, and continued to study her. Then she looked away and sagged against the pillows that propped her up. "He'll want to see you, after this," she said. "He will have plans for you. If you're happy, then you mustn't listen to him. Do you understand, child?"

Bianchi's throat felt tight. "I do," she said, though not without difficulty.

Her mother's eyes flicked back to her face; whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her. "You always did," she said musingly. "Better than I did, sometimes. Maddening child." She stirred. "It isn't the life I would have chosen for you. But perhaps it was the wise choice after all. It's no good thing to marry, in this world." She laughed, short and bitter. "Or to stay unmarried, and love, either. Stay as you are, child. You'll be happier for it."

Bianchi nodded. "Yes, Mama," she said, quietly. "I will."

"Good," Mama said, and grimaced, as though from a spasm of pain. "I doubt I'll see you again," she said. Her voice was coming more lightly now, breathless. "The boy. Do you ever see him?"

"Sometimes," Bianchi said, as her mother grimaced again, mouth drawing tight and eyes squeezing. "Not often. He doesn't like me much."

"Someday," her mother said, "after I am dead, you understand... Someday, tell him that I should not have done what I did to him." She glanced at Bianchi, as if to make sure that Bianchi was listening. "I could have borne it, I think, if only he hadn't looked so much like her. We were friends once, you know." She fell silent, panting, forehead turning damp with sweat. "So tell him. I should not have hounded his father for her death. I should not have treated the boy as I did."

"I'll tell him that you're sorry," Bianchi promised.

Her mother gave a short cough of laughter. "I'm not _sorry_," she said, hoarse. "But all our sins come back to haunt us. I'm sorry about _that_." She grimaced again. "Call the nurse. And remember what I said. Keep to your own path."

"Yes, Mama." Bianchi rose from her seat.

The nurse was waiting just outside the door. She came in with a cheerful bustle and a whole clutch of conversational inanities. Bianchi stood back and let her do her work, watching as the woman prepared a shot and bent over her mother's wasted form to administer it. The tension eased out of her mother's frame and her face went slack with relief. As she sagged against the pillow, Bianchi cleared her throat. "I'll be going now," she said, quietly. "Goodbye, Mama."

"Remember," her mother said, voice going hazy. Bianchi nodded and her mother closed her eyes.

She wasn't at all surprised that one of the servants was stationed outside the sickroom, waiting to tell her that her father was in his study. Bianchi accepted the message and refused to surrender her go bag. She sent the servant away instead and made her own way across the house to the wing that had always been her father's domain. It hadn't changed at all since the last time she'd seen it and her father's voice still rose irritably when she knocked on the door, bidding her to enter.

The last time she'd seen the man had been in this room, years ago, when he'd told her that no daughter of his would ever lower herself to become a hitman. The room hadn't changed in the years since she'd defied him then. It was still full of the big, heavy furniture that made Bianchi feel tiny. Her father hadn't changed much, either. He had more grey in his hair than she recalled, but he still presided at his massive desk like a king at his throne.

Bianchi elected to avoid the rug before his desk where she'd always stood during interviews with him and claimed one of the leather chairs instead. It was less comfortable than she'd always imagined it would be. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

He looked her over, scrutinizing her the same way she was scrutinizing him. "You filled out well," he said. "You look like your mother did at that age."

And her mother had been a great beauty, once, beautiful enough that he'd fallen in love with her at first glance, or so Bianchi remembered her mother telling her when she'd been very small. She inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment. "Thank you."

They sat and looked at each other some more, taking measure of each other. Her father looked tired, and perhaps frustrated, though she couldn't guess why. Insofar as she was aware, the Falco Family was doing as well as it ever had. On the other hand, he was fifty-five years old and didn't have an heir any more, and his wife was dying. That was enough to make any man nervous, she supposed.

"You've had your time to play," he said, coming to his point abruptly. "I was willing to let it go on for a while, but enough is enough. I need you here, and it's high time you grew up, girl."

In a way, she was glad he hadn't tried to be affectionate about it. "I grew up a long time ago," Bianchi said. "The work I do isn't play. I'll thank you not to call it that."

He cut his hand through the air, as if that dispensed with the objection. "You know very well what I mean. I was willing to make allowances for your peculiarities for a time, but I no longer have the luxury of doing so. It's time you came home and took your proper place."

_And what place would that be?_ she thought. "No," she said, "I don't think so. You'll have to find some other heir after Mama goes. And you can leave me the hell out of it. I'm not going to let you marry me off to some poor bastard just so you can have an heir."

He looked discomfited at how bluntly she'd answered him, but rallied. "Don't be ridiculous. You would be consulted in the decision, of course. And there are a fair number of decent men who would be willing, even considering your... history."

"You mean they're willing to be the next boss," Bianchi said, "so they don't care that I'm not a virgin. Yeah, sorry, but I wouldn't have any of them, thanks. Besides. I left this Family years ago. Frankly, it was the best decision I've ever made."

He scowled, but schooled his expression quickly. "I realize that things were not always—pleasant," he began. "But I did my best—"

"You slept around constantly, and tried to pass Hayato off as Mama's child, _and_ you had his mother killed," Bianchi said, ticking the points off on her fingers. "If that was your best, I would hate to see your worst."

"Now see here—" he began, but that was enough, she decided. She didn't have to put up with any more of this.

She stood, and slung her go bag over her shoulder. "No," she said. "I'm not interested. You made your bed, and now you get to lie in it. Perhaps you'll be able to find someone stupid enough to join you in it, or perhaps not. Either way, I don't give a damn any more."

Her hand was on the doorknob when he said, "There won't be any more children. There can't be." The confession came grudgingly, though she supposed in all fairness that she couldn't blame him for it. After the life he'd led, it had to be embarrassing.

She paused and the silence dragged out between them, taut. Then Bianchi shook her head. "I suppose Mama is right," she said. "Our sins _do_ come back to haunt us, don't they? Maybe you should start looking at the family tree. Surely I have some legitimate cousins somewhere who would fit your bill."

And she walked out, ignoring all the things he shouted after her.

* * *

 

Bianchi only wished she could be surprised when her aimless wanderings downtown, drifting through Namimori's shops and boutiques, somehow turned into a walk through the residential section of town. Of course she was heading for the Sawadas' house. That was where Reborn would be, after all.

One of these days she was going to have to stop always turning to Reborn whenever her life fell apart. This wasn't going to be that day. Even so, she had second thoughts on the Sawadas' front step, wondering whether she really wanted to talk to Reborn about this one.

The door opened before she'd made up her mind. Dino Cavallone was on the other side, looking back over his shoulder, speaking to someone—Tsuna, she guessed. "—sorry about breaking that, just send me the bill," he said, and looked around.

"Oh, hell," Bianchi said, staring at him like the world's biggest idiot. He stared back, and the only good thing about the whole absurd situation was that he looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

"Oh, Bianchi," Reborn said from somewhere behind Dino. She recognized that tone of voice; it was Reborn irritated with the great stupidity of the world and all its inhabitants. "You're just in time to say goodbye to Dino."

"Goodbye?" she echoed, inanely.

Dino regrouped faster than she was managing; he was already sliding back into the professional boss mode. "I'm flying out this evening," he said. "I've been away for such a long time, you know. I need to see how business is going."

"Oh," Bianchi said. "Of course." That made perfect sense, didn't it? Stupid of her not to realize that there wasn't anything to tie him to Namimori now.

What made less sense was the way that she and Dino were still staring at each other, at least until Reborn cleared his throat. Dino jumped and then inclined his head to her. "I'll be going, then." He eased himself around Bianchi and walked away, holding himself very straight, and stepped over the toy Lambo must have left on the walk—the one that Bianchi had nearly tripped over herself—and turned down the street.

Reborn made an interested sort of sound behind her, and Tsuna said, a touch plaintive, "I'm confused. The other day he said that he didn't need to go back to Italy any time soon."

"Sometimes things change," Reborn said, and then his weight was heavy on Bianchi's shoulder. "Isn't that right?"

She shifted her balance to compensate for him. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, they do."

"Minds can change, too," he added, that piping little voice pitched low, just for her. "Can't they?"

"It's not a good idea," Bianchi said.

Bianchi grunted when his palm smacked the back of her head. Reborn hit hard, for someone with such a small mass. "You won't know that till you try," he said while Tsuna made some inarticulate protesting sound behind them. "Run and make your own mistakes," he said. "Stop letting other people's mistakes hold you back." He hopped down from her shoulder, and added, casually, as she hesitated, "But you should probably run fast."

That decided her. "Yes, Reborn," she said and dashed down the front walk.

Tsuna's voice rose behind her. "What's going on?" he asked, sounding bewildered. "I'm so confused."

The last thing she caught of their exchange was Reborn's reply: "I'll tell you when you're older."

The long dark car was parked well down the street; even so, Dino had very nearly reached it. Bianchi wasn't a sprinter by nature, so she did the next best thing, and bellowed his name.

For a moment he carried on like he hadn't heard. Bianchi laid on all the speed she possessed and started thinking about fallback plans and commandeering a car to chase him down with if she had to. Then he stopped and turned, just in time for Bianchi to crash into him.

The momentum of her charge sent him staggering backwards, exclaiming something startled and hardly fit for mixed company, even as his arms came up to catch and steady her. "What—?" he said, when it became clear that they weren't going to topple over after all.

Bianchi seized his face in her hands, stopping him, and said breathlessly, "I didn't mean it, I really didn't, I swear, I'm sorry." Dino gave her a look of such blank incomprehension that she kept going, half-babbling. "It's because I'm completely fucked-up, okay, you have no idea, and you can do so much better, you _should_ do better, really you should, and I never was any good at the things a boss's wife should be good at—"

"Bianchi," Dino said, and all her words dried up in her throat. The confusion was clearing from his face, only to be replaced by a little frown that puckered his eyebrows as he looked at her. "You know, I would punch anyone else for saying something like that about you," he said slowly, like he was measuring out the words.

"You shouldn't punch people for saying what's true," Bianchi said, shaky with relief that he was apparently willing to listen after all. "Seriously, I'm a hitman, I'm not wife material, and—"

"Shut up," he said, not unkindly. "I don't give a damn about that."

"You probably should," Bianchi told him. It wasn't just her voice that was shaking now, it was her knees, too. She halfway hoped that he wouldn't notice, and then gave that up when he set a hand at the small of her back and pulled her closer, steadying her. "Other people are going to care."

"Fuck 'em," Dino said, which, as responses went, had a certain charming directness to it. He curved his other hand around her cheek and looked at her, searching. "You really didn't mean it?"

"Not a word," Bianchi said, and watched the smile spread across his face at that, soft and bright.

"I wondered," he said. "It seemed weird that you were so upset, when you said it didn't mean anything, but..." He shrugged. "If a lady says something, you gotta take her word for it."

Bianchi smiled at Dino, and knew it was crooked. "Who're you calling a lady?"

"No, really," he said, serious. "I'd have to punch anyone else who said that. I'm not going to let you get away with it, either."

"Yeah?" Bianchi raised her eyebrows at him. "How do you figure you'll stop me?"

"I'll think of something," Dino said, and bent his head to kiss her.

And, she thought, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing back for all she was worth, he probably would, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes: I'm gleefully revising certain points of canon at will in this fic. Most notable is Bianchi's age, since I thought about it, and a.) a five year age difference, when one is 17, is not insignificant and is somewhat skeevy to boot; and b.) having Bianchi be only two years older than her brother complicated the timeline a whole fucking lot. So, I made an executive decision: Bianchi's the same age as Dino.
> 
> The second major revision pertains to Romeo and certain canon details about his life and times, which have been tweaked and adjusted a bit.
> 
> Third: For the sake of this story, I'm totally gacking from [](http://branchandroot.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**branchandroot**](http://branchandroot.dreamwidth.org/) and saying that Bianchi and Hayato's Family name is Falco (falcon) and that Gokudera's mom named him Hayato in a deliberate homage to that (the first character in 'Hayato' corresponds to 'hayabusa,' falcon); when they adopted him into the family, their dad renamed him to Eugenio, 'well-born' in an overly obvious attempt at compensating for certain things.


End file.
